


Homesickness

by ncfan



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adult Themes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bechdel Test Pass, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homesickness, Introspection, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, Parent Death, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, Trauma, post-Second Kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-30 00:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6400294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Second Kinslaying, Celebrían and Celebrimbor both have much to contend with. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homesickness

**Author's Note:**

> In canon, Celebrían's birth date is given as being sometime in the Second Age. It's not clear _when_ in the Second Age, exactly, only that she has to have been born before SA 1350-1400, since at this time Galadriel is mentioned as taking her with her from Eregion to Lórinand (At least in UT). But for the purposes of this AU, I wrote her as having been born during the First Age in Doriath instead.

The outside world had meant nothing to Celebrían since she was born; the outside world did not matter at all. She was a child of Doriath, fairest and greatest of all the kingdoms of Ennor. Hers was a world of lush trees and flowers, of dancing in fields of niphredil and aconite in spring, and waking under the open sky to birdsong. Her world was one of shaded glens, one of brooks and rivers that sang with the reflected melodies of the Ainur. Their border was a fence of magical power, sung into being by Melian the Queen, and maintained by her power and grace.

Surely, there could be no greater or gladder kingdom east of the Sea. Not a kingdom ruled over by Thingol and Melian, one enriched by the wisdom of the Onodrim and glorified by the voice and light of Lúthien. Even when the rest of Beleriand burned, Doriath was a bastion of safety. Why would Celebrían ever wish to leave?

She didn’t. She did, anyways.

The Isle of Balar was supposed to be a safe place. Celeborn said as much, as he tucked his spare cloak more securely about Celebrían’s shoulders. Celebrían nodded dully, and did not respond. That seemed rather far-fetched to her, honestly.

She stared at her mother’s back, feeling more like a child than she did a grown nís, as she had in fits and spurts since their last night in Menegroth. Galadriel had not really looked at her since their flight from Doriath; at least, Celebrían didn’t feel as though she had. What she got instead were glances that passed through her like a weak beam of winter sunlight. All of Galadriel’s will was bent towards directing the Iathrim host, alongside her husband and their fellow leaders, Duileth and Oropher. She had spoken barely a word to Celebrían since then.

 _Then again, I can scarcely meet her gaze. Not since…_ Celebrían’s eyes were drawn to a rust-colored stain on Galadriel’s golden cloak. She drew her own cloak, plus her father’s borrowed one, closer about her shoulders. There were similar stains to be found on her own clothing, and her father’s. She would have tossed away the knife she had used in the sack long ago, cast it into the Esgalduin or the Aros or even the river Sirion, but fear had driven her to keep the knife close. What if the Kinslayers attacked them again? What if it was Orcs, this time? Even the shadows at night seemed menacing, now. Celebrían could not trust them.

The Isle of Balar was supposed to be a safe haven. That was what everyone had said. But after Menegroth in its glory, the settlement on Balar looked fit to blow away in a light storm. Celebrían saw before her a ramshackle collection of patched tents and weathered stone buildings. They looked as though an army, or a band of raiders, really, could overwhelm them completely inside half an hour. But then, Menegroth had fallen, too. Even before the Kinslayers’ sack, the Naugrim had overrun its halls.

Menegroth had not been safe. But it was better to be here than it was to risk the wilds.

-0-0-0-

The news had come down like lightning off the plains of Beleriand, borne first by seagulls to Círdan’s ears, then a little while later by Iathrim messengers, warning him to expect refugees from Doriath. What was meant to be secret rarely stayed so on Balar for long, and this was never meant as a secret, anyways—the whole settlement knew what had happened within the hour the Iathrim messengers arrived.

Celebrimbor would have liked to say that it came as no shock to him, that none of it was at all surprising. It would have been marginally more pleasant if the news announced to him in the forges had provoked nothing more than a nod and a “I’m not surprised it came to that.” He already knew his father and uncles to be Kinslayers. The news that they were now Kinslayers twice over should have come as no great shock. Nor should the news that his father and two of his uncles were dead—Kinslayers reap what they sow, after all.

And yet…

Scarcely had the news arrived at Celebrimbor’s doorstep then had Círdan come hurrying after it, his weathered face deeply furrowed. _“You’ve heard the news?”_

_“…Yes, I have, Círdan. I couldn’t avoid it.”_

_“Good. I was afraid it hadn’t reached this part of the settlement. Celebrimbor… I know this was no fault of yours, but perhaps it would be better if you weren’t here when the Iathrim arrived.”_

Círdan’s logic was simple, but sound as his simple logic always was. Here comes the victims of the House of Fëanor, virtually all of whom will have lost friends or kinsmen to the Kinslayers. The presence of one of Fëanor’s scions, even one with no blood on his hands, would not go unremarked and would almost certainly be unwelcome. Maybe it would be better for Celebrimbor to leave, at least until things had blown over?

 _Celebrimbor laughed suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched sound utterly devoid of humor. “I doubt the arrival of the Valar themselves would be enough to make this ‘blow over,’ Círdan; the passage of time isn’t going to do the trick.” His mouth twisted in a smirk; Celebrimbor wished he could keep the lurch of misery he felt from showing on his face, but he doubted he had been successful in that regard. “Are you afraid they might try to_ hurt _me? I doubt the Iathrim would be willing to lower themselves to the same level as the House of Fëanor.”_

_Círdan’s face was grim. “Much has changed in Beleriand over the years. I cannot say one way or another if the Iathrim will try to harm you. But if you wish to stay here, I’d say that you need to keep to the forges as much as possible.”_

_“Until when?”_

_“I don’t know.” Círdan sighed heavily and left._

Indeed, it likely would have been wiser to have done as Círdan suggested, and leave Balar. The places in the world where one of Fëanor’s blood was welcome were fast dwindling, and Balar was no longer one of those safe havens. Better to go to the distant reaches of the world, where the name ‘Fëanor’ was not even known, let alone despised.

But maybe a strain of willfulness had finally entered into Celebrimbor’s spirit, that which his father had often remarked upon as being lacking in him as a child. Balar had been his home since the Nirnaeth, and he did have friends here, even if they were few in number. He was no Kinslayer, and would not be driven from his home like a criminal, no matter what the Iathrim thought of him.

And indeed, few of the refugees went to live in the distant corner of the settlement where Celebrimbor made his home. His home was a Noldorin forge, and what few blacksmiths had survived the sack of Menegroth were quite content to remain with their own people. The most Celebrimbor ever saw of the Iathrim were a few Edhil walking past the doorway of the forges, and they were distinguishable only by their dialect, for Celebrimbor never looked up to watch them go by.

He… had heard that Galadriel was among the group of refugees that had come to Balar, instead of the Havens of Sirion on the coast. She was supposed to be one of the Iathrim’s leaders, which surprised Celebrimbor not at all—he could never imagine Galadriel following after the orders of another. He’d not seen her; Celebrimbor did not know if she was even aware that he was here. He… didn’t seek her out. He wasn’t sure what he would have said to her, or her to him.

The days were passing much as they ever did in winter—gray, dull, and bitter-cold if you stepped away from the fires. It didn’t snow here, as it had in Himlad and Nargothrond, but rained instead, almost incessantly; the gentle patter sounded constantly on the roof of the forge, the counterpoint of the rolling tide ever heard in the distance. Celebrimbor’s work kept him busy; more people meant more provisions needed to be constructed, and he was forever forging nails, stakes for tents, pokers, pails, and anything else that might be needed.

It kept him busy, the work. He didn’t think about much of anything else, while he worked.

Then, one day, not long after the Iathrim first arrived on Balar, there came the soft sound of footfalls on the ground behind him.

Celebrimbor looked up from the latest batch of work requests he’d gotten from Círdan, blinking against the gray light that flooded from the open doorway. There was a nís standing there, wrapped in a cloak so dark a shade of blue that for a moment, he thought it black. Her silver-white hair spilled loose about her shoulders, and she looked at him with wide, uncertain green eyes.

The hairs on the back of Celebrimbor’s neck prickled in recognition as he straightened. “Can I help you?” he asked quietly, not smiling as he might have done before the news of the sack had come to him.

The nís drew no closer, hovering in the doorway. Her mouth pulled at an odd, lopsided angle. “I know you,” she said plainly.

Celebrimbor nodded. “And I know you.” If the Iathrim Sindarin she spoke had not given her away, her appearance would have. Celebrimbor had never met Galadriel’s child—Finduilas had dwelled in Nargothrond, and Ereinion in the Havens of the Falas, but Celebrían had never left the shelter of Doriath’s forests—but her silver hair and smaller stature could not hide the resemblance between mother and daughter.

Celebrían shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her brow drawing up in mounting uncertainty. Here, here was something that stung—here was his cousin, and she would not even close the distance between them, like she was afraid of what he would do. “Why… Why are you here?”

“This is my home, Celebrían. It has been for many years. This is where I ply my trade.” Better than surviving off of the charity of others.

She nodded, as though this answered a great many questions, but then her face hardened, muscles stretching taut over her rounded jaw. “I have seen your father, Fëanorian. In Menegroth.”

Some white heat leapt up in Celebrimbor’s veins, setting his blood alight. “And I have seen the borders of a great kingdom barred against the guilty and the innocent alike, and all left to brave dragon fire together,” he snapped. “I doubt I’ll forget that sight any quicker than you will Curufin in Menegroth.”

At that, Celebrían flinched, her shoulders hunching like the wings of a bird. She said nothing, and made no move to leave.

Celebrimbor sighed, his anger leaving him. “If you wish the company of your kin, Ereinion is here. He is a child, but you will likely enjoy his company better than you would mind. Besides that, I’m working. I would be poor company, regardless.”

He turned his back on her; heard, rather than saw, Celebrían leave. When he could be sure of his own privacy, Celebrimbor pressed his hands against the surface of his worktable, feeling suddenly as though he might collapse. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Scrutiny was supposed to be easier to bear than this. So too were reminders.

-0-0-0-

Making herself useful was, Celebrían had quickly discovered, the best and in some cases _only_ way of distracting herself from what preyed on her mind in idleness. She was no smith, no shipbuilder, no healer, no cook. She was a court lady, whose time had been primarily occupied by dancing and singing and playing upon instruments, and in embroidery and learning lore passed down to her by her mother and by Melian the Queen. She was not trained to lead, as her parents were. She had discovered nonetheless that there were uses for her time, even on this island.

“How are you?”

“Better now, my Lady. We’ve had a bit more food come our way.”

“I am glad to hear of that. If you find that there is any trouble, please tell me so.”

While new structures were being built for the Iathrim, the refugees had crowded into the houses already built—there was no other way, unless they wanted to stitch their cloaks together and use them as tents, and given the weather, most opted for crowded quarters instead. Celebrían’s duty, then, was to make regular rounds of the part of the settlement where her people had settled in, and inquire after their well-being.

Reports were, of course, mixed. Many were recovering from injuries sustained in the Kinslaying or later on the road. Some died from those injuries, and when Celebrían heard that their spirits had quit their bodies, it made her own heart stop for a few moments, fire and blood playing out in her mind all over again. There were many who were troubled in heart and mind—Celebrían among them, if she was honest with herself, but for them, it affected them so strongly that they could not even summon a semblance of normalcy. They clung to the dark shadows, shuffling their feet so they stood ever in the shadows of the Edhil who had already been here, Sindarin survivors of Nargothrond and Brithombar and Eglarest. They would not even meet Celebrían’s eyes, and they stumbled over words. At night, Celebrían would sometimes wake from sleep to a wail in the night, and learn the next morning that someone had woken screaming from a nightmare.

Sometimes it seemed to Celebrían that she was only distracting herself from her own problems by drowning herself in the problems of others. It was better, this way. Her problems were not so important, really. Not so important that she needed to dwell on them.

As she made her way down one of the makeshift ‘streets’, alleys really that were constantly down in mud that sucked at her feet, a strain of song caught Celebrían’s attention. The melody, an incongruously cheerful tune considering their surroundings (though the singer’s voice did sound a touch strained), was unfamiliar to her. So too were the words, though Celebrían only caught about half of them—something about the stars dancing through the heavens, and the flowers of the earth dancing with them.

Her curiosity piqued, Celebrían followed the song back to its source, and found a dark-haired nér sitting in the darkened doorway of one of the stone houses, his green cloak wrapped close about his shoulders. When his eyes met her, he smiled slightly and stood, shadowed by tiredness as he might have been. “Fimion, my Lady.”

Celebrían nodded slightly, her own smile taking a nervous bent. It didn’t surprise her that he knew her; everyone seemed to know her. Still, she could not help but feel as though she was at a disadvantage. “You sing very well, Fimion.”

“Thank you. It’s been my craft since my earliest years. I take a great deal of pride in my work.

“Your song… I haven’t heard it sung before.”

Fimion raised an eyebrow. “Really? I composed with that song with many of my friends; we used to sing it to each other almost constantly on summer nights. Many of them fled to Doriath after Nargothrond’s fall; I’m surprised you never heard it there.”

So he was from Nargothrond? Finding her curiosity mounting, Celebrían remarked, hoping he wouldn’t find the subject offensive, “I am afraid I was never able to visit Nargothrond. I was—“ she looked away, memory of the reports she had heard running through her mind ( _“Finduilas was separated from her party and slain; she was pinned to a tree by a spear_.”) “—I… am sorry, about its destruction.”

Fimion’s brow furrowed, his face etched with pain. “Much was lost that day,” he said softly, his gaze trained upon the ground. “Much that was good is now gone.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “And now the same ill fate has befallen Doriath. The Valar are having mercy on none of us, it would seem.”

As much as she would have liked to argue the point, Celebrían did not gainsay him. Indeed, the Doom of the Noldor _had_ found its way to Celebrían’s home, even if indirectly—the doom of the House of Fëanor touched all that they touched, eventually. “Why did you not come to Doriath?” she asked Fimion. “Minstrels were always welcome at court. If your companions sought refuge there, why did you not join them?”

The look of bitterness on Fimion’s face sharpened. “I am a Noldo, my Lady—or, at least, my father was. Your king suffered none with Noldorin blood to pass his borders, unless they were close kin to him. I could have been a singer to match Daeron, and he would sooner have watched me burn.”

Celebrían froze. She… should have expected that. Surely there were many in this camp who could tell the same story. And yet, much as she knew it shouldn’t have, it still came as such a shock to hear.

-0-0-0- 

Lately, Celebrimbor found that his work did not bring him the satisfaction it once had. Oh, it was no easier or more difficult to do than it had ever been; he could forge simple tools without even thinking, really, and that had not changed. But when his hands went to his work, his mind went elsewhere, and no matter how he tried, he could not seem to guide them back to more pleasant climes.

_“No, Telpe, you’re angling the bow too high; you’ll overshoot your target at that angle.”_

_Celebrimbor dutifully angled the bow a little lower. He looked expectantly up at Curufin and asked, “Is this better?” He hoped this would satisfy his father; his arm was beginning to shake from the effort involved in keeping the bowstring taut, his muscles screaming._

_Curufin nodded crisply, his expression unreadable. “The angle is better now, yes. Let the arrow fly, and let us see where it lands.”_

_Celebrimbor needed no further encouragement. He let the bowstring go, and watched, eyes riveted upon the arrow as it flew through the air._ Let it hit the target. Hit the target, please. _His mouth fell open in dismay as the arrow struck the ground beside the target, quivering in the turf before stilling._

 _Beside him, Curufin laughed quietly. He patted Celebrimbor’s shoulder and murmured, “Your next lesson will be in learning how to angle the bow correctly and_ aim _at the same time.”_

_Celebrimbor’s mouth broke into a scowl, but it morphed into a sheepish grin when his father smiled down at him. “Yes, Father.”_

Compared to what he had become in the halls of Nargothrond, the Curufin of Celebrimbor’s childhood seemed at times like a stranger. The reports of his father’s infamy were many—he had been a part of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë and the ship-burning at Losgar; he had turned a king’s people against him; he had assaulted a Doriathrin princess; he had taken part in yet another Kinslaying. His father was a villain, and would doubtless be remembered as such. And yet, Celebrimbor could not banish from memory the sort of person his father had been to him, before he had been driven from Nargothrond.

Many times had Celebrimbor’s thoughts touched upon his father since that day. It might have been easier, he allowed, had he simply been able to put Curufin from his mind. Forgetting his father would not have made the suspicion the Edhil of Nargothrond bore him easier to shoulder, but his heart might have been a little lighter. It brought Celebrimbor no joy to imagine his father out in the wilds, making slow progress towards Himring with only Celegorm and Huan for company, and later not even the latter. Beleriand was grown perilous since the Bragollach, and before the Nirnaeth, when Celebrimbor had last seen his father, he had sometimes wondered whether Curufin had even made it to Himring.

He didn’t have to wonder about his father anymore. There was an awful surety in death, something that allowed Celebrimbor no comfort or consolation. His father was dead, and his corpse now fertilized the ground of Doriath, the kingdom he had ruined in his lust for the Silmarils. Unless death found him first—and given the state of Beleriand, that was not so far-fetched—Celebrimbor would never see him again.

Now, Celebrimbor had but two questions left. Where had his father’s spirit gone when it quit his body? To Mandos’ Halls, to the Void to flounder in nothingness, or had it not left Ennor at all, lingering still as a corrupt ghost, decaying into insensibility? Celebrimbor could not imagine the answer—from the Doom he had pronounced on the House of Fëanor, one had to wonder if Mandos would even accept Curufin into his Halls. And the second, the question that now dogged Celebrimbor’s every step, was thus: had Curufin thought of him at the end, at all?

He simply could not help but wonder, as he worked, and Celebrimbor did not know what prospect pleased him less—the idea that his father had not thought of him at the end, or the chance, however slim, that he had.

-0-0-0- 

“Mother? Mother, may I speak with you?”

Galadriel was rarely at ‘home’ (‘home’ being under Círdan’s own roof, the room in his house that he had opened for use by Celebrían and her parents) during the day. Where Celebrían was far more likely to find her was in the house set aside for healers and their patients, or in a tent not far from Círdan’s house, coordinating building efforts. Today, it was the latter, for which Celebrían was grateful, for Galadriel was alone—what she had to say, she had no desire to say in front of others.

Celebrían stood hovering over the table, wringing her cloak in her hands. Try as she might, she couldn’t quite stop her stomach from churning. At first, Galadriel seemed not to hear her. She sat at her table, staring at the maps and reports under whose weight it groaned. Her brow was furrowed, her green eyes slightly unfocused. Then, she looked up and blinked, and nodded slightly at Celebrían. “How did our people seem when you made your rounds today?”

“M-much the same as usual,” Celebrían stammered, her heart hammering in her chest. “I think… I think fewer of them are having nightmares now. Mother… I… wanted to speak with you about something else.”

Galadriel’s eyes narrowed slightly. She gestured at the chair opposite hers at the table. “You seem troubled, Celebrían. Sit.”

The chair’s legs made a whispering sound against the dead grass as Celebrían pulled it out far enough from the table to sit in. She stared down at her lap, all the words she longed to say crowding behind her shut lips.

“You’re not usually so quiet when you wish to talk about something.” The note of wry humor in her mother’s voice, the first Celebrían had heard since before the sack, made her lift her head. Galadriel was smiling gently at her, leaning her head on one propped fist. “What was it you wanted to say?”

Celebrían drew a deep breath. “I… How… How did you react, when darkness fell over the Undying Lands?”

Galadriel’s smile faded. “You’ve never wanted to speak about this before.”

“Please, Mother. I am… curious.”

Galadriel fixed her in a piercing stare, her lips pursed in a small frown. “It would be difficult to describe to someone who never knew the light of the Trees.” She sighed slightly, bringing her hand up to run her fingernails over her hairline. “I spent many a year in Alqualondë, so it was not quite so terrible for me as it was for others, but the Eldar were taught to revere the light, and abhor darkness. There were many who believed that darkness ultimately held death for all of us, and that those who had been left behind in Endóre—“ here her mouth twisted grotesquely “—had already met their deaths of darkness.

“When the Trees were felled, the darkness that covered the land was more than simply the dark of night. It was not the night that you have known. It blotted out the stars and all the lamps in Aman. Its weight crushed the breath out of our longs and the courage from our hearts, until finally we could see the tars again.”

Celebrían found herself wringing her cloak again. “Is that why you left Aman?”

Her mother snorted. “Hardly. The Darkening was an impetus, certainly, but the impulse had been there for many years, and I suspect that even if Laurelin and Telperion still gave light, the Noldor would have left Aman eventually, and I with them.”

Whether or not she found that comforting, Celebrían didn’t know. “And… you don’t regret it, even now?”

Something bright and hard flashed in Galadriel’s eyes. Celebrían drew back, but as soon as she saw it, it was gone. Galadriel’s nostrils flared as she answered, very evenly, “There are many things about the way we left that I regret, Celebrían. By itself, leaving is not one of them.”

Celebrían nodded silently. She had had all of her questions answered, and yet felt as though she had learned nothing.

-0-0-0-

The air in the forge was stifling. Celebrimbor’s fellow smiths seemed not to notice, but it had come to the point that he could hardly breathe. He nearly stumbled from the doorway of the forge, clumsily pulling his cloak about his shoulders as he did so. He yanked his hood down over his head, though in the dim red evening, he wasn’t sure who was going to recognize him to raise a fuss.

He needed to do something. Visit with Círdan, visit with Ereinion, take a walk through the small part of the island that was still scraggly pine stands, _something_ , so long as it wasn’t staying here. He needed air. He couldn’t work there anymore, not today.

 _Who would have thought it could ever come to this?_ Celebrimbor wondered bitterly, as he wandered aimlessly through the settlement. _Not my family. Not I. We paid the Doom no mind; we made plans in spite of it, and trusted in our own strength to win the day. From kings and princes to outlaws and refugees, that is what we have become._

One by one, the great kingdoms and principalities of Beleriand had fallen to the might and terror of Angband. Dorthonion, Hithlum, Himring, Thargelion, Nargothrond. Even Doriath, not a Noldorin kingdom but a Sindarin one, had fallen, victim not of Morgoth but of the greed and grudges borne by the House of Fëanor. The only great kingdom left was Gondolin, concealed in some remote hiding place, and who knew how much longer it would last? For all anyone knew, Gondolin had already fallen, its people put to the sword or taken prisoner to fuel the great war machine of Angband.

Who knew how long it would be before Balar met the same fate as nearly all of Beleriand? Celebrimbor’s mind whirled as he walked deeper and deeper into the settlement. The Enemy and his forces had ever abhorred the Sea; that was the only reason Balar had ever been considered viable as a safe haven. But how much longer would it be before fear of their master overcame the Orcs’ fear of the Sea? How much longer before Morgoth or one of his lieutenants devised a way to render the threat the Sea posed impotent? The Sea’s protection was made good by a Vala, but Morgoth was a Vala too…

 _How long until we are all driven to the ships, fleeing south or even west? All the ships bearing mariners to Aman have been wrecked; I know that. But if ships came bearing refugees, tens of thousands of us, would the Valar drown us all?_ Celebrimbor remembered the Doom spoken from jagged rocks in Araman. _…Perhaps it would be better not to risk it._

_But what are we to do? If we flee south, our Enemy will only follow after us. Are we fated to flee until we stand crammed in at the southernmost tip of the world, and surrounded by foes?_

_Will there be no help for us, even then?_

“You!”

Celebrimbor was torn from his reverie by a snarl in his ear, and rough hands digging painfully into his shoulders. Before he could shove those hands and the body connected to them away from him, before he could even speak, Celebrimbor found himself slammed up against the wall of a small house, his head spinning from the force of the impact. Those same hands that had grabbed him in the first place now ripped his cloak hood away from his face.

Celebrimbor found himself staring into a face twisted with fury, gray eyes bright with hate. “Kinslayer,” came a hissing voice.

It occurred to Celebrimbor that he ought to be concerned, at least a little bit. But his blood felt like ice in his veins as he met his attacker’s gaze. “No,” he said firmly. “I am _not_.” It was an accusation he’d be refuting for the rest of time. Might as well start with a cool head.

“You lie!”

Pity his attacker didn’t share the sentiment.

“He does not lie.” A third voice broke in on the proceedings, quiet and strained. Celebrían appeared at the Edhel’s shoulder, her face white in the dusk. “He was never in Doriath.”

The Edhel looked to Celebrían almost in confusion. But, slowly, those hands relinquished their grip on Celebrimbor’s shoulders. Like a cat denied their kill, the Edhel slunk away, shoulders hunched.

Celebrimbor rubbed his now-sore shoulders and his neck, trying to soothe the throbbing muscles there. His head was starting to ache, but the only thing that would cure that was time. _It’ll all hurt worse in the morning, I don’t doubt._

Celebrían stared at him, her face oddly stretched, all the muscles taut. Celebrimbor bit back a sigh and nodded to her, wondering what she would say this time. He couldn’t just run off without giving her a hearing, not after she had intervened on his behalf as she had. But why intervene at all? He’d not gotten the impression that Celebrían thought him the sort of person worth intervening with one of her own people for.

What felt like an eternity passed in silence. Celebrían mashed her lips together, her eyes reflecting the lamplight until they seemed brighter than the lamps themselves. Then, she turned on her heel and walked away from him, on a path that, if she followed it all the way, would take her to the shore.

After a moment of bewildered indecision, Celebrimbor followed.

-0-0-0-

The shoreline of Balar was deserted at night. Shipbuilders preferred to practice their craft under the watch of Anor, and any Edhil who wished a swim to take their minds off of their privation preferred daylight as well. This night promised only Ithil, rising slowly from the watery horizon, strips of reflected silver light dancing on the dark waters.

Celebrían flopped down on the white sand, clutching at it with her hands and struggling to draw an even breath.

 _I want to go home._ It seemed like a childish wish. No, it _was_ a childish wish; Menegroth was a charnel house now, and returning there would only make her easy prey for the House of Fëanor or anyone else who might think to attack her. And it wasn’t like Menegroth had been entirely safe even before the Kinslaying. Once Melian left them, they had been vulnerable, and time proved their vulnerability over and over. But still, still there was this impulse in her to believe that if she went to her own home, she could pull the door shut against all her fears.

_My home lies empty, despoiled and defiled. I can’t go back to it. I—_

Celebrían stopped short when her hand curled around something round and smooth and cool, buried in the sand.

It was a pearl as big around as a cherry, glistening even when coated with sand, and bearing a brighter luster still when Celebrían took it to the water and washed it clean of sand. She stared down at it with some wonder, her brow furrowed and mouth slightly agape. “A pearl loose on the shore,” she murmured, resting one finger atop the pearl, grateful for the distraction it provided.

“You sound surprised.” Celebrían did not have to look up to know who was speaking. She already knew who it was, who had followed her all the way out here. “Círdan sent Thingol pearls on a regular basis,” Celebrimbor pointed out.

“Yes, I know, but when they said that you could find pearls on Balar just by walking on the shore, I thought that to be hyperbole.”

Unexpectedly, Celebrimbor laughed, a markedly warm sound in the chill night. “Never assume anything Círdan says is hyperbole. I’ve never known someone less likely to exaggerate than him.”

Celebrimbor sat down on the sand, still radiating mirth, though it was dissipating by the second, like eggs lost heat after being taken off the stove. He stared out at the Sea with a vague, abstracted expression, his loose dark hair half-obscuring his face. Celebrían sat down next to him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“I…” Celebrían felt as though she had a burning coal lodged in her throat, but she went on, “I… killed Edhil in the sack.”

Celebrimbor leaned back on the palms of his hands. Still staring out at the Sea, he said, evenly, “That is not an experience I have any direct frame of reference for, Celebrían.”

“Oh,” Celebrían said in a small voice, curling her fingers tight over the pearl she had found in the sand.

“Would it help you if I were to tell you that likely the only reason for that is that I was little more than a babe in arms at Alqualondë?”

“That’s not what I meant! I—“

He waved a hand in the air. “You killed them in self-defense, didn’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Then it’s not the same.”

Celebrían could take little comfort in that, but she knew what Celebrimbor had meant by it. She nodded, and didn’t argue.

Over the gentle rolling of the tide, a few seagulls made their voices heard, their lonely cries piercing the night. Celebrían could feel her pulse pounding in her chest, her neck, the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands. She felt as though her blood might burst her veins. “Do you… Do you ever wish that you could just go home?” she whispered.

Celebrimbor sighed heavily. “All the time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Telpe—Celebrimbor
> 
> Ennor—Middle-Earth (Sindarin)  
> Niphredil—‘Little pallor’ (Sindarin); a white flower that bloomed first in Doriath when Lúthien was born. It also grew in Lothlórien, on Cerin Amroth. In appearance it was similar to a snowdrop.  
> Onodrim—the Sindarin name given to the Ents (Sindarin) (singular: Onod)  
> Nís—woman (plural: nissi)  
> Esgalduin—literally ‘River under shade’ (Sindarin); a tributary of the River Sirion, which originated in the Shadowy Spring in Ered Gorgoroth and flowed southward to empty into the Sirion; marked the borders between the Forests of Region and Neldoreth.  
> Aros—a south-flowing river in East Beleriand that had its origin in the Pass of Aglon. It served as the border between Dor Dínen and Himlad, bordered the Forest of Region in Doriath, and emptied into the River Sirion.  
> Sirion—a major river in Beleriand, which had its source in Eithel Sirion and flowed south through the Ered Wethrin, Doriath, Andram (where it fell underground for a time) and Nan Tathren, before emptying into the Bay of Balar at the Mouths of Sirion.  
> Naugrim—‘The Stunted People’ (Sindarin); a term used by the Sindar amongst themselves for the Dwarves; given its meaning and that they apparently didn’t use the name in front of the Dwarves, the term is likely a pejorative.  
> Iathrim—the Sindar of Doriath  
> Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)  
> Nér—man (plural: neri)  
> Eldar—‘People of the Stars’ (Quenya); a name first given to the Elves by Oromë when he found them by Cuiviénen, but later came to refer only to those who answered the summons to Aman and set out on the March, with those who chose to remain by Cuiviénen coming to be known as the Avari; the Eldar were composed of these groups: the Vanyar, Noldor (those among them who chose to go to Aman), and the Teleri (including their divisions: the Lindar, Falmari, Sindar and Nandor).  
> Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)  
> Anor—the Sindarin name for the Sun  
> Ithil—the Sindarin name for the Moon; of the Sun and the Moon, it is the elder of the two vessels, lit by Telperion’s last flower; in an early version of ‘Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor’ was said to be “the giver of visions” (The Lost Road 264). As this form is very similar to ‘Isil’, the Quenya form (which is likely to be its original form, as the vessel of the Moon was made in Aman), it is likely that ‘Ithil’ was adapted from ‘Isil’; all I can suppose is that the Valar got in contact with Melian at some point during the First Age to share information.


End file.
